


more than the love

by Manzanas



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - No Band, Angst, Coffee Shops, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Gen, M/M, Misunderstandings, Pining, Soul Punk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-31
Updated: 2015-07-31
Packaged: 2018-04-12 07:01:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4469711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Manzanas/pseuds/Manzanas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pete is good at coffee. Patrick is good at music. They're even better together. (Too bad they suck at relationships.)</p><p>Or, Patrick Stump, the genius behind Soul Punk, finds himself in Pete's coffee shop one day. Pete maybe freaks out a little. It can only go up from there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	more than the love

**Author's Note:**

> first and foremost, thanks as always to my lovely beta [Sofia](http://hesitantalicn.tumblr.com/) for catching my mistakes and putting up with my writing process lol
> 
> also, a shoutout to [Liberty](http://vandaystrick.tumblr.com/) for the original prompt: pete is a barista and patrick stump, the genius behind soul punk, comes in the lil coffee shop every week or so to work on lyrics for his next album. pete’s a huge frickin fangirl and has miniature heart attacks whenever patrick walks into the shop.

Pete isn’t freaking out. He really, really isn’t.

He’s hiding behind a shelf of organic coffee beans, doing his best to subtly spy on the blond sitting at the table in front of the window. Every few seconds he’ll peek over the top, taking just a moment to reassure himself of the other man’s presence—slumped over the table with headphones on, eyes staring intently at the laptop screen in front of him—before returning to his hiding place again.

Pete sneaks another glance, thankful that at least the guy’s too wrapped up in his work to notice Pete being a giant creeper, before ushering Brendon over in what he hopes is an inconspicuous wave. (It isn’t.)

“Brendon,” Pete whispers harshly as he tugs the barista down behind the stand with him.

Brendon follows down easily enough; working at Pete’s shop for almost two years has given him a near immunity to Pete’s bizarre tendencies.

“Brendon,” Pete repeats, before taking what he attempts as a calming breath. It doesn’t really help, but he continues anyway, “Look at the table by the window. Tell me that isn’t Patrick Stump.”

The barista stands up, taking no measure of precaution as he openly stares at the man sitting at the table, then returns to his crouched position next to Pete, face sporting a rare shocked expression.

“Holy shit, dude. How the fuck did you manage to get Patrick Stump as a customer?” Brendon pauses, taking a moment of consideration. “Wait… aren’t you like, kinda obsessed with this guy?”

Pete hits him on the arm, _hard_. “I’m not fucking obsessed with him. I just… admire his artistry, or whatever.”

It’s not even untrue. And as far as being obsessed goes, well…Pete’s been a Patrick Stump fan since the release of _Soul Punk_ , and that’s all he has to say on the subject.

Brendon snorts, not even pretending to respect Pete as his boss. “Yeah, okay. But seriously. No offense, but what the fuck is he doing here?”

Which isn’t even an unfair question. Pete probably runs the shittiest coffee shop in all of Chicago, if everything but the actual coffee is considered.

It’s sort of run down, the actual building shoved between some apartments and an old thrift shop. It could have vintage hipster appeal, except the place is old without any of the luster vintage actually offers.

To make matters worse, the service kind of sucks because Pete hires for good company rather than any of the requirements that would make for a halfway decent barista. The specials change with his mood, and generally sport long, complicated names that no one can remember. (Apparently, _The Pros and Cons of Espresso_ is not as a clever a name for a Latte as Pete thought it was.)

It really isn’t the type of place someone like _Patrick_ _fucking_ _Stump_ should be wasting his time.

Brendon breaks him away from his train of thought, impatiently snapping his fingers in front of Pete’s face.

“Look, he doesn’t have a drink or anything. Go offer your _services_ , or something,” Brendon suggests, lewdly waggling his eyebrows to get the full extent of his innuendo across.

Pete punches him again, but either Brendon’s a lot tougher than he looks or Pete’s weak as shit because the action has even less effect than last time.

Finally, Brendon shoves him, up and away from his hiding space before saying, “Just fucking do it. Just try not to creep him out by _appreciating his artistry_ too hard.”

Pete flips him off, away from the eyes of his customers because he’s a responsible businessman, before turning around and squaring his shoulders. Brendon’s right. The least he can do is get the guy some coffee at his fucking coffeehouse.

He studies Patrick for a moment, before deciding that he seems like an Americano kind of guy, maybe with a bit of creamer.

Pete can’t tell a week before it happens that his girlfriend is going to break up with him. Can’t read the signs that his friend is pissed off at him from some offhand comment he made the other day. But he can look at a person and decide if they’d prefer a caramel macchiato or a soy latte. Some people have actual talents that give them actual advantages; Pete can predict coffee orders. 

He takes the time making the drink to try and calm himself down, breathing in deep the way he used to when he was trying not punch something (or, more accurately, _someone_ ). Unfortunately, an Americano doesn’t lend itself to a particularly long drink-making process, and Pete finds himself coffee in hand, staring at Patrick Stump, unable to take a step forward.

He looks around and catches Brendon’s eye. He gives Pete a thumbs up before a making shoving gesture, and Pete takes a moment to lament not hiring a more respecting staff.

Pete turns back to Patrick, decidedly taking a step forward and not focusing on the way his hands are shaking slightly. Meeting what basically amounts to a celebrity crush shouldn’t make Pete this anxious. If it were any other situation, the nervousness would eventually loop its way back around to humor, but even Pete knows this has him on the far side of pathetic, rather than just straddling the fence like he usually prefers.

Besides, if Pete laughs right now, he might throw up. And Pete really doesn’t think his lunch on Patrick Stump’s shoes will act as a good first impression.

Pete actually manages his way over to the table without somehow making a fool of himself, but then gets held up at the sight of Patrick, who’s still bent over the table, indifferent to world outside his laptop.

Rather than trying to interrupt the other man, Pete opts for subtlety and sets the cup on the table, a safe distance away from the laptop. The last thing he needs is to spill coffee all over Patrick Stump’s laptop.

The action catches Patrick’s attention, though, and he gives Pete a surprised glance, hands slipping off his headphones as he glances up at Pete.

“On the house,” Pete offers, tripping over his words slightly, giving Patrick what he hopes is his polite, _dealing with customers_ smile and not the nervous grimace that’s threatening to take over. He takes a moment to inspect Patrick further (not in a creepy way, of course). Noticing the dark bags hanging under his eyes, Pete adds, “You look like you could use a bit of a pick-me-up.”

Patrick smiles in reply, small but somehow perfect, and Pete thinks he might actually die right here in his goddamn coffee shop. But staring at the face of what Pete suspects might be a literal fucking angel, all his can think is: _what a way to go_.

“Yeah,” Patrick agrees, “I guess I’ve been a little too busy for, uh, sleep recently.”

Pete sees his opportunity, and takes just a moment to collect himself before glancing at Patrick’s laptop, asking casually, “You working on something?”

At this point, Pete thinks he deserves an Oscar for how cool he’s been managing to play it. He’s on the verge of what might be a minor heart attack, but when Patrick meets his eyes again, he just offers a friendly smile and a _go on_ gesture with his hands.

Patrick sighs, deep and long. It’s the same sort of weariness Pete feels when he has to call up Travie and restock all his organic coffee options. Pete doesn’t imagine that the life of a coffeehouse owner and a literal fucking rock star are all that similar, but already, he can relate.

“I’ve been _trying_ to… but I haven’t made any real progress in a while,” Patrick admits.

Pete wants to offer advice (and maybe a hug because he’s creepy and _ohmygodpatrickstump,_ literally this could be his only chance), but there’s no way he can do that without revealing how much of an obsessed fanboy he is.

Instead, he puts on his best sympathetic face and tells himself that he’s genuinely trying to help as he replies, “What are you working on? Maybe talking about will help like, get your juices flowing or something.”

Patrick smiles apologetically, all lips and no teeth, before gesturing to his watch.

“I was actually supposed to be at the studio like, twenty minutes ago. I was just stalling ‘cause I have nothing to show for,” Patrick pauses, casting his eyes down in way that might be considered nervous if that wasn’t absolutely fucking ridiculous. He then continues, “But thanks. I might… I might take you up on that offer, later? I’m Patrick, by the way.”

It takes all of Pete’s will power to hold in the automatic _I know_ that threatens to actually come out of his mouth. Instead, he offers up his hand, thankful it’s at least steadier than before, and replies, “Pete. And we’re open from eight to nine, for whenever you feel like cashing in on that offer.”

Patrick smiles again, this time more genuine as he takes Pete hand. “Also, thanks for the coffee. I, um, forgot to say that, before.”

He stumbles on his words, hesitating in a way that makes Patrick authentic, something that speaks more for him as a person than as a famous musician. At the very least, it’s a far cry from the middle aged businessmen who come in, having no idea what a cappuccino is but ordering it anyway (and then subsequently complaining because they don’t like the taste). It just feels… natural. 

Pete can’t really do anything about it though, so he just gives Patrick a final nod before leaving to return behind his counter as the other man collects his stuff. It wouldn’t do Pete any good to hover, but he still finds his customary creeping spot behind the coffee shelves and watches as Patrick leaves.

Just as he walks out the door, Patrick takes his first sip of the coffee Pete gave him, before nearly spitting it back in the Styrofoam cup, clearly disgusted.

Pete frowns at a bag of French Roast _._ He’s never gotten a cup wrong before.

* * *

 A week passes. Pete’s a busy guy, running a coffee shop and just generally being an adult, so while the incident isn’t always at the forefront of his mind, it lingers around, catching him at inopportune moments and generally just making him feel like an idiot.

The more he thinks about it, there more Pete is sure he actually just came off as a giant fucking creep, and that Patrick will never visit this part of town, much less his coffeehouse, ever again, just to avoid Pete.

It’s maybe a little dramatic, but when he tells Brendon as much, the fucker just shrugs, before offering, “Maybe he just didn’t like the coffee.”

Which Pete also can’t stop thinking about. It’s a dumb thing to get upset over, but Pete considers his instinctive knowledge of people’s beverage orders practically his only talent, and it failed him the one time he really needed it.

When he tells Brendon this as well, all he gets is another shrug and: “Probably should have gotten an autograph, then.”

Pete has no response for that, so he just goes and sulks in the back while Brendon works the counter. Pete continues to feel sorry for himself as he checks their stock, noting that they’re low on green tea and he’s probably going to have to call up their supplier later in the week.

There isn’t actually all that much work to do in the back, though, since his earlier sulk sessions have caught him up on everything Pete had previously been procrastinating on. Pete debates with himself for a moment about what to do next; he’s not really feeling up to dealing with customers, but chances are if he leaves Brendon alone for too long, he’ll break the espresso machine again.

However, Pete’s internal debate is interrupted as Brendon hurries into the supply room, the closest Pete has ever seen him to actually doing something quickly. Pete wishes he had this kind of energy Monday mornings when they have a line going out the door and only the two of them working the counter, but Brendon’s smiling, his entire face lit up in excitement, and Pete knows he’d never trade this kid for anything.

“Holy shit, he’s back,” Brendon whisper-shouts, doing his best to be quiet and not really achieving it at all. “Patrick Stump. Why the _fuck_ would he come back?”

“Hey, asshole. My coffee isn’t that shit,” Pete protests, but silently, he can’t help but agree.

Pete’s still an obsessed fanboy, though, so he hurries to the front and tries not to get too excited when Brendon’s right. Patrick’s setting himself up at the same table as before, laptop already out as he unwinds his headphones.

Pete considers his options, thinks that maybe jumping Patrick right as he walks in the door is probably going to end the singer’s second visit rather quickly,  before deciding this time to just wait behind the counter. He’s never really had a policy about loitering, so he can’t force Patrick to interact with him, but considering the mess he made of it last time, Pete’s content to just hide in the background this go around. 

This all goes out the window when Pete is wiping down the counters. Someone (Brendon) made a mess while steaming milk, and now the dried remains of that mess is sticking the machine to the counter. Pete curses as he wipes it all down, promising himself this time, _this time_ he’s actually going to have that talk with the younger barista about actually doing his job right.

He’s almost done cleaning up the mess when he hears a polite cough from behind, followed by an even more polite, “Excuse me?”

Pete whips around, already recognizing the voice, and find Patrick standing in front of the counter. He can only pray that Patrick hasn’t been standing there for too long, watching Pete get overly invested in cleaning.

One meeting a week ago doesn’t give Pete a very good idea as to where they stand, so he goes for casual, wiping his hands off as he makes his way to the front of the counter, asking, “Hey, what can I get you?”

Patrick considers the menu for a moment, and Pete’s never really asked this question without having at least some vague idea of what the answer will be beforehand. Eventually, Patrick lowers his eyes back to Pete and says, “The chai tea… is that good?”

Pete shrugs. He hates tea. He tells Patrick as much, surprising a laugh out of the singer. Pete smiles in response, adding uncertainly, “I’ve never gotten a complaint?”

“Okay, guess I’ll just chance it, then,” Patrick jokes as he pulls out his wallet, “A small chai tea, please?”

Pete nods, ringing Patrick up and getting to work on his drink. He’s silently commending himself for not doing anything weird or embarrassing as he fixes the tea. When he turns around to give Patrick his drink, he considers attempting to somehow prolong the interaction, but decides against it. No reason to push his luck.

Karma, however, seems to be working in his favor because, upon receiving his drink, Patrick shifts for a moment, not immediately leaving the counter like most customers, before asking, “So that offer… to talk? It is still open?”

Pete blinks in surprise, momentarily at a loss for words. He didn’t expect Patrick to even remember his offer, much less ever take him up on it. He recovers quickly, though, saying, “Yeah, just let me get Brendon to cover the counter, and then we can go sit?”

Pete ends it as a question, and when Patrick nods in agreement, he flags down Brendon so he can actually come and do his job.

Pete shrugs out of his apron and then follows Patrick back to his table, doing his best to appear at least marginally calmer than he actually feels. Patrick fucking Stump wants to talk to him about what most likely is work for his new album, and Pete can barely breathe.

But really, it’s cool as long as Patrick doesn’t notice.

They sit down and Patrick moves his laptop to the side while Pete practically vibrates with excitement. Pete’s wishing he had gotten himself some coffee, at the very least to give his hands something to focus on, when Patrick says, “I… don’t really want to talk about work, I guess. I’ve been talking about it all week with people who basically all just tell me I’m not doing anything right.”

“That’s cool,” Pete replies instantly, disappointed, but unwilling to show it. Something deflates in him, but it makes him less jittery, less nervous, so maybe it’s for the best.

But now, he’s not really sure what’s going on here, what sitting down, talking, _all this_ means to Patrick. Pete still feels like he somehow snuck in backstage to Patrick’s life, and he’s just waiting to get kicked out. (Which is a little ridiculous, considering that they’re sitting in Pete’s coffeehouse.)

“So… I’m guessing you own the place?” Patrick asks, a little unsure, waving his hand and gesturing vaguely around them.

Pete nods in reply, then adds, “Yeah, bought it a couple years ago. Back when I thought _Clandestine_ would be a good name for an actual business.”

Patrick laughs in response, and some of the tension drains out of the conversation. It’s easy after that.

They bounce around topics, never really settling anywhere until they land on music. They’re arguing good-naturedly about old metal bands when Pete lets it slip that he used to play for Arma, and Patrick’s eyes go comically wide as he lets out a rush of air.

“No shit! I used to go to your shows,” Patrick admits. “Fucking crazy, every single one of them.”

Pete snorts, a self deprecating laugh threatening to spill out. He can’t process the part where one of his music idols apparently used to go watch the garbage he and his old band called music, so he just focuses on the garbage part, and tries to ignore all the repressed memories that now want to resurface.

“Dude, you don’t know the half of it. I still can’t believe anyone actually showed up to those shit-shows.”

“I remember, you guys broke up right as I was leaving Chicago, ready to start my quest to make it in the music industry,” Patrick says, something a little like nostalgia in his voice, except maybe a bit more sad than fond. “I had plans to go to your last show with a few friends, but I missed it. I was pretty bummed, honestly.”

“Don’t be,” Pete admonishes, “It was a train wreck like all the rest.”

Pete’s words end that line of conversation. They move on to topics that make Pete’s chest hurt less, but Pete knows he’s going to be in a funk for the rest of the day. Arma will always be an old sore for Pete, a scar that’s faded but still visible in just the right light. It was never going to be big; they were too shitty for something like that, but Pete would be lying if he said he didn’t miss screaming lyrics to a crowd that was willing to yell them right back. 

At one point, the conversation hits a lull, and Pete watches Patrick fidget, looking like he’s wrestling with what he wants to say. Pete waits it out, unsure of what type of cajoling would get the best response from Patrick, so he just says nothing.

Eventually, the singer sighs, a similar tiredness bleeding through as his last visit, and confesses, “I’m working on an album, right now. The second go at my label, and it’s just… not working.”

Pete considers how to reply. Sitting down and talking to him has shifted the space Patrick occupies in his head, somewhere further from celebrity and closer to just _person_. 

Eventually, he decides for something more neutral, perhaps stating the obvious: “I thought you didn’t wanna talk about work?”

“I’m really not supposed to,” Patrick admits, his nervous shifting making Pete wish he could offer some sort of calming remark. He doesn’t though, and the singer continues, “But I don’t know. I can’t keep hashing the same arguments with the guys at my label, y’know? Things aren’t working… and I don’t know how to make them.”

Pete nods, doing his best to appear understanding. He hasn’t really had to share any of his major life decisions with anyone, at least for the past couple of years, so it’s not something he can really relate to. Still, Patrick’s shooting him these sad, despondent eyes and Pete knows he has to make it better.

“I think…” Pete starts, not actually sure how he’s going to finish the statement, “I think maybe you need to stop worrying about the guys at your label. Just make the album you want.”

It’s maybe a bit naive, as far as how the music industry tends to work, but Pete has no experience in anything beyond coffee, and his general attitude to people who tell him no has anyways been _fuck you_. Maybe Patrick needs a little bit of that too.

Patrick snorts derisively, something a bit jaded in the way he eyes the table instead of looking at Pete.

“I tried that the first time, but no one was interested,” Patrick eventually says.

Pete opens his mouth, ready to disagree because fuck album sales; Patrick made a literal _masterpiece_ with Soul Punk and he should do whatever he wants the second time around, too. However, his rant is cut short before it even begins, when Patrick looks at his watch, gasping out, “shit,” as he notices the time.

Pete slips his phone out of his pocket, checking for himself, and _shit_. It’s five forty-five; they’ve been talking for over three hours. Pete watches as Patrick hurries to collect his things, remaining seated as Patrick lets out, “Sorry, I need to be at the studio in fifteen. I’ll see you later?”

It’s a question that, for Pete, the answer is a resounding _yes_. He only has the chance to nod though before Patrick’s out the door, rushing just like last week.

Pete sits for a few moments, the reality of the last few hours catching up to him now that he has a moment to just _breathe_. He minds is a whirlwind of thoughts, most of which he isn’t all that comfortable with looking at just yet. Still, one works its way to the forefront, probably the least threatening of all, as Pete stares at the now-empty seat across from himself.

 _Chai Tea_.

* * *

It’s not Chai Tea.

Like clockwork, Patrick stops by, once or twice a week, making his way through Pete’s menu one slightly subpar beverage at a time. Pete isn’t quite sure what to make of it, though he does his best not get offended at Patrick’s obvious avoidance of any Americano option.

After ordering his drink, some days Patrick’ll sit at his usual window seat, working on his new album or at least playing at it. Other times, he does his best to pull Pete away from the shop, sitting him down and making the older man talk with him (not that Pete would ever turn him down).

Patrick doesn’t bring up his work again, and Pete doesn’t push it. He still wants to know, _craves_ it, really. And it’s not just the album, but also the idea of Patrick opening up to him, sharing his insecurities and letting Pete be the one the comfort him.

But something’s shifted. They’re no longer strangers or even acquaintances, and their relationship is more than just imagined encounters running through his head. Pete still doesn’t know what kind of drink Patrick likes best, but he knows which one he’ll choose next. And that’s… something.

Pete doesn’t have a word for it other than _friends_ and it’s a weird feeling, settling uncomfortably in Pete like an itch he doesn’t know how to scratch. He hasn’t let himself get too close to anyone in the last few years, not since his last relationship and band both blew up right around the same time.

The most time Pete spends with anyone is Brendon, and Pete’s not naive enough to think he hangs around for any other reason than the paychecks.

Still, Pete _likes_ Patrick. Beyond the music, artistry, _whatever_ —Patrick might be the most genuine person Pete’s ever met; something about him grounded in a way Pete’s never quite managed, even in his more subdued coffee-filled lifestyle.

Which makes it hard on the days when Patrick will come in, face drawn and eyes tight. Days when Pete can see exhaustion in every line of the singer’s body, tension rolling off of him in waves. Pete tries his best at comforting, fixing Patrick’s drink without prompting and bringing it to the singer, setting it by him and quietly taking the seat across.

There are so many things Pete wants to say, so many variations of “Fuck the expectations,” and “It’ll be amazing no matter what,” but he always stays silent, trying his best for solidarity or something equally as ridiculous. These days always end with Patrick giving Pete a grateful smile, less tense even if his eyes are still tight. Pete tells himself that has to count for something. (He just wishes it could be more.)

Pete’s considering all this two weeks after Patrick’s most recent visit, trying not to have a meltdown during the morning rush as he considers why Patrick stopped coming. He tries to reassure himself: two weeks isn’t even that long. Except, it’s twice as long as any other break between visits.

It’s dumb and obsessive but Pete’s already convinced he’s done it again. Fucked over some friendship without even realizing it because he has no idea how to get a handle on other people.

Pete thinks he’s doing at least a halfway decent job at hiding his internal freak-out, except right before leaving for his lunch break, Brendon nudges him and says, “Calm down. You’re making me anxious. I’m sure he’s just busy with the album shit, finally getting stuff done.”

Pete shoots him a grateful look, before nodding in response. So maybe he’s not as subtle as he’d like to think. Honestly, he’s just surprised the younger barista has stuck around this long; Pete knows his crazy isn’t worth minimum wage.

Still, Pete tries following Brendon’s advice, not letting himself think about anything except making beverages and working the register. He’s at least somewhat successful, getting lost in the routine of coffee-making, when he turns about and finds Patrick, shifting nervously at the counter and doing his best to look as unobtrusive as possible.

Pete thinks it could possibly be a successful endeavor, were it not for the giant ass guitar case slung over his shoulder. Still, just the sight of Patrick, eyes brighter and limbs looser than in the past several weeks, is enough to bring a smile to Pete’s face, and he asks, already knowing the answer, “You wanna try the earl grey?”

Whatever has Patrick so fidgety drains out of him with the question, and he nods in response, setting down his guitar as he leans against the counter.

“So…” Patrick begins, fingers tapping out an unidentifiable beat against the counter. He doesn’t continue though, so Pete just side-eyes him until he’s ready. Eventually, he starts again, “So… I think I’m finally starting to make some progress on this album.”

Pete stills, only for a moment, before resuming with the tea. He follows Patrick’s lead, trying for casual and missing by a mile, and says, “Yeah? That’s good. Show those fuckers at your studio what’s up.”

Patrick laughs in response, quiet but genuine. Pete tries not to be obvious about how much it improves his mood, but he knows his smile has gone big and dopey by the time he hands Patrick his tea. Patrick’s answering smile is just as sappy, and Pete doesn’t know how to categorize a friend that makes Pete’s heart flutter the way Patrick does.

Something dangerous hovers at the edge of Pete’s mind, an idea about where Patrick could fit if Pete was willing to take a chance. He skirts around it, biting the inside of cheek to distract himself from the way it makes him giddy and anxious and terrified all at once.

Pete’s brought back to reality by Patrick, who upon receiving his drink, tilts his head in invitation, gesturing to his (their?) usual table. Pete nods in response and waves at Brendon to cover the counter. The shop’s not particularly busy, and Pete tries not to feel guilty at the way he’s dropped everything the moment Patrick walked through the door.

When they sit down, Pete’s eyes immediately land on the guitar case. Patrick’s never brought an instrument before, and Pete considers what type of bribery it would take to get the singer to pull it out and play something.

Pete doesn’t have much to offer outside of coffee beans and cheap jokes, so he thinks maybe it’s best to just avoid that line of thought altogether. Still, his eyes linger for just a moment, and Pete feels like it’s a fair trade. Pete can’t take a risk for Patrick, and the singer would never play for him. It’s a strange sort of balance, a deal Patrick didn’t agree to because Pete would never ask, and he finally looks away.

Moving on from the guitar, Pete takes a moment to assess Patrick, drink in all the changes he hadn’t noticed at the counter. He still looks tired, but not as beat down, like maybe his long nights have been filled with productivity rather than frustration. There’s something looser about the set of shoulders, a tension drained from him that Pete didn’t see until it was gone.

When Pete finally meets Patrick’s eyes, the other man is smiling, and Pete can’t help the way his lips curve in response.

“So, the album?” Pete asks, and Patrick’s eyes light up in response.

“I kind of… found my inspiration, I guess?” Patrick starts, eager in the way people get when they talk about what they love.  “I spent a lot of the last album working from imagination. I think—I mean, this is going to sound dumb, but…I’ve always been a little wary, I guess, of my voice. I tried really hard to work past that on _Soul Punk,_ y’know?

“But, more than that, I didn’t really want to share myself. I mean, I wrote situations I never really experienced, and I want… I want something different this time. Something genuine. I think I found it.”

Patrick ends with a smile, something that could be considered nervous if the singer had any reason to be. Pete can’t quite decipher the look in his eyes, exactly what the curve of his lips added to the way Patrick looks up through his eyelashes means for Pete.

Still, Pete beams in response, reaching across the table to clasp Patrick on the shoulder. “I knew you’d figure it out. You just needed like, time or whatever, to get that artistic shit flowing.”

The way Patrick laughs, full bodied and over the top, uninhibited like Pete’s never seen him before, causes something to soften in Pete, and he can feel the way things are shifting again. They’re exploring territory he hasn’t ventured in years, and it causes him to shrink back, his previous thoughts crashing to the forefront of his mind.

His eyes go back to the guitar, semi-hidden where it’s resting against the window behind Patrick. And Pete always obsesses over metaphors, and he can’t shake the way the instrument represents everything Pete can’t do and everything Patrick wouldn’t. Maybe he’d write about it, if that were something he still did.

Pete’s too busy with his (minor) freak-out to notice the way Patrick follows his line of sight, turning around so that his eyes are resting on the guitar as well. He doesn’t miss, however, the way Patrick opens his mouth, asking, seemingly without thought, “You want me to play something for you?”

Pete’s eyes widen, immediately moving to Patrick as all the air escapes his lungs. His metaphor breaks in half and he refuses to look at the pieces, doesn’t want to know what’s spelled out before him.

When Pete meets the singer’s eyes, he looks just as shocked as Pete feels. Like maybe he can see the pieces too, like maybe he’d like to shove them back together.

Pete finally finds his voice, and hates the way Patrick doesn’t know what he’s offering, hates how he’s answering a question Pete could never ask. “I—You don’t—“

“Only if you want me to,” Patrick cuts him off, face somewhere between vulnerable and resigned. Like it’s Patrick question, like Pete could ever say no.

“I—Sure. Let’s hear those windpipes, yeah?” Pete attempts at something like a joke, smiling nervously at Patrick as he reaches for his guitar.

He pulls the instrument from the case, and starts tuning it as he avoids Pete’s eyes.

“Any requests?” Patrick asks, focusing on a wall across the room instead of Pete. His fingers tap nervously on the guitar, the same unidentifiable beat as before.

He considers taking it back, having Patrick put the guitar away changing the subject, but the thought makes something in his chest hurt, makes him feel like he’d be saying no to more than just a song.

Instead, Pete ducks his head, leaning forward so Patrick has no choice but to look him in the eyes. He smiles, something small and dopey and just for Patrick and replies, “Allie?”

Patrick’s eyebrows raise in shock, and Pete watches as a slew of emotions work their way through Patrick. He settles on something unreadable, maybe a mix of pleased and embarrassed, and says, “So, you’ve, um, listened to my album?”

Pete nods in response, trying for relaxed but landing somewhere around nervous. “Yeah… it’s—yeah. I liked it. A lot.”

The faint blush coloring Patrick’s cheeks darkens and he looks away again, mumbling an embarrassed thanks as he runs his hand through his hair, further messing up the already tousled locks. It’s unfairly endearing, and the slight upturn of his lips, face tilted away as if somehow Pete would miss it, only makes it worse.

Patrick fiddles with the guitar strings, checking the tuning he just set. He hesitates for a moment, only long enough for Pete to notice, before launching into the song.

“ _Whenever you find it_ ,” Patrick begins, smiling shyly at Pete from behind his guitar, “ _It’s none of my business. Now wherever you go, go, go, it’s none of my concern..._ ”

Stripped down, just Patrick and his guitar, Pete thinks he’s never heard anything better. He knows the expression on his face, the look in his eyes; there’s no way Pete’s playing it close to the chest like he planned.

He doesn’t freak out in Patrick’s presence anymore, tries to pretend his fanboy days are over, but Pete’s basically getting a private concert, and he’d be lying if he said this wasn’t a fantasy he’d entertained before.

 Even more though, meeting Patrick and getting to know him, learning about his insecurities… Pete wants Patrick to know how talented he is, how appreciated he should feel. If that takes a little self-inflicted embarrassment on Pete’s part, then it’s worth it.

Patrick only grows more confident as the song continues, and he locks eyes with Pete as he sings, “ _But I wonder if I’d be so good if I saw you again._ ”

Pete pretends it isn’t as intimate at it feels, pretends there’s a world outside just him and Patrick in the corner of his shitty coffeehouse.

It doesn’t work, but Pete thinks it was worth a shot.

Twenty minutes (and four songs) later, Patrick is leaving just as afternoon rush starts making an appearance.

“I’ll see you soon, yeah?” Pete asks, giving up on casual for the sake of reassurance.

Patrick nods in response, and Pete thinks _fuck it_ , and gives Patrick a quick hug right before he walks out the door. Patrick stills, only for a moment, before returning the gesture, smile soft and indecipherable once he pulls away.

Pete (barely) manages not to watch as Patrick walks down the street, around the corner and out of sight. Instead, he makes his way back behind the counter, ignoring Brendon and the knowing looks he keeps shooting Pete’s way.

Not even the usually slew of rude customers can break Pete’s mood, and he knows he’s smiling too big for someone who’s had to remake the same vanilla latte three times because it “just doesn’t taste right, could you make it again?” but he doesn’t care.

All he can think about is Patrick: his voice, his smile, the way he tightened his arms around Pete, right before letting go.

Even better, he manages to avoid thinking about how it will all inevitably all go wrong, just like his relationships always do.

* * *

 

The next time Pete sees Patrick, he’s walking back into the café after his lunch break. He finds the singer and Brendon having a conversation over the counter, heads leaned together as Patrick gesticulates something Pete can’t quite hear.

They’re both whispering, which is surprising enough considering Pete didn’t know Brendon had the ability to speak quietly. But even more shocking is how intimate the conversation appears, two people curved towards each other in an empty coffeehouse.

The initial shock settles into something uneasy, and Pete can’t help but notice the bright smile on Brendon’s face and the answering hopefulness in Patrick’s eyes. He can’t help but try and translate the way they’re bent towards each other into something understandable, doesn’t know what to make of how hollow the scene makes him feel.

Something low and disappointed settles in Pete’s stomach, and he considers the way Brendon and Patrick could fit together like Pete has never been able to with anyone.

He tears his eyes away from the scene in front of him, his gaze landing on his hands. There’s a few scars littering his knuckles, relics from old bar fights and post concert brawls. It’s something Pete stopped once he realized punching things never helped him solve a problem, and he fights to push down the old anger that’s bubbling up in him now.

He just feels so _inadequate_ , but Pete knows there’s no solution for not deserving what clearly was never his to have.

When Pete looks back up, they still haven’t noticed him, and a little of that old anger in him _snaps_.

He tells himself he’s just being polite when he intentionally shuts the door with an unnecessary bang, causing both Brendon and Patrick to look up in surprise, matching startled expressions and wide eyes. 

Patrick immediately breaks out into a grin, and gesturing to the other barista, says, “I tried to catch you for lunch, but Brendon told me you already went on break.”

“Yeah,” Pete agrees, trying to pull his mouth into something resembling an answering smile. It works about as well as it always does, but at the very least, Brendon relaxes marginally from where he’s standing rigid behind the counter.

“I should go,” Pete gestures towards the back room, not finishing his sentence as he walks past the counter, resolutely avoiding meeting either of their eyes.

He tries not to, but he still hears Brendon when he finally picks up the conversation, “Yeah. He’s a bit dense with these things, but he’ll figure it out eventually. If not, I can just knock him upside the head and tell him myself.”

Patrick laughs in response, but Pete doesn’t wait to hear his reply. Instead, he goes to the storage room and tries not to punch a wall until he’s sure that Patrick’s gone. If Brendon won’t stop glaring at him once he makes his reappearance, well, Pete didn’t mean to interrupt their fucking love fest or whatever.

He goes home that night, angry and miserable, hand itching for a solution he gave up long ago.

* * *

 

Pete decides to take the next day off, and he texts Brendon not to bother coming into work. When he gets an _anything wrong, chief??_ in reply, Pete snorts and leaves it unanswered.

Pete doesn’t actually take many vacation days, a combination of giving up all his old hobbies and a preference for keeping busy that has him up at the coffee shop (or doing some variation of work) nearly every day.

He thinks of all the free time he’s given himself, just a few hours, but that’s always been more than enough to get himself into trouble. Pete decides to try relaxing, and he lazes around his apartment for a few hours, even watching Terminator when it comes on the TV. 

When that gets boring, he looks around his apartment, considering his options. He frowns at his closet, knows there’s a bass in there he was too attached to throw away, even if he gave up the life that came with it.

He decides against it, shaking off the longing that comes with the idea of picking up his old instrument. His eyes slide away from the closet and towards his front door.

With nothing to do at his place, Pete figures he might as well go out. For a moment, he considers finding a bar and possibly someone to share his misery with. He knows he can’t be the only person stuck between what they want and what they can’t have.

But it feels like a step in the wrong direction, and Pete’s spent too many of the last years trying to keep to the right one. He slouches where he’s seated on his couch, and tries not to think about how pathetic it is to be sulking alone in his shitty apartment. 

Eventually he sighs, getting up and making his way to his closet to throw on a hoodie. He’s out the door and walking without thought of where to go, and he grimaces in defeat when he realizes he’s taking the same turns that will eventually lead him to _Clandestine_.

When he gets to the shop, he digs around in his pocket until he finds his keys. He steps inside, and something immediately relaxes within him at the sight of his shop. There’s something comforting about the run down interior, the tables Pete should probably replace and a counter that has definitely seen better days.

Still.

Pete isn’t unhappy. He really, really isn’t. He thinks back, the choices he’s made, what’s he’s done so he could own a shitty little coffeehouse in the wrong part of Chicago, and he’s miles and miles ahead of where he used to be.

Just admitting this to himself is proof enough.

All the shitty things Pete used to do, the type of person he used to be, he’s done his best to try and move past that. If that means swearing off relationships, crumpling up local show flyers when they’re handed to him on the street, then he’ll do it.

In the last few years, he’s given up a lot of things, and possibly pushed away even more. And maybe it’s just a rundown building with bad coffee and an even worse staff, but Pete thinks maybe _Clandestine_ is only thing that he wants in his life that he maybe actually deserves.

He worked his ass off for this place, and he won’t risk losing it by falling into the same patterns that fucked his life over in the first place.

He’s not unhappy.

But he considers the empty chairs, the back room he’s spent more time in than his own home, and thinks… Maybe he is a little lonely.

One last cursory glance around the place and then Pete sighs, deciding there’s nothing here for him either. He steps out of the coffeeshop, locking the door behind him, and then goes home.

The next day, he goes back to work.

* * *

 

Pete somehow does an adamant job of avoiding both Patrick and Brendon, despite them being the only two people he sees on a regular basis. Pete hates it, didn’t realize how much he’d come to depend on the both of them as a form of contact until he couldn’t look either of them in the eye.

He catches them talking, a similar situation as the week before, and fights the way his gut clenches and his heart drops. It isn’t… he and Patrick didn’t even have _anything_ , just sporadic conversations in the spaces between all their problems.

And now, feeling the weight of Brendon and Patrick’s twin stares on his back, he feels like one of them.

Eventually Patrick leaves, casting Pete one last glance and not even attempting to talk to him. Pete doesn’t know if he feels relieved or just disappointed.

* * *

 

After about a week of playing the avoidance game, Brendon corners Pete as he's trying to make his way to the counter. They’re standing in the doorway between the shop and the back room, and Pete doesn’t even want to try and interoperate the unreadable expression settling over Brendon’s features, the grim line of his mouth or the hard set of his eyes.

“Look. Clearly there’s been a misunderstanding here,” Brendon begins, his tone matching the rare display of seriousness of his expression.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Pete denies, trying to push past him and to the counter and away from having to talk about this.

He doesn’t think he can listen to Brendon confirm just how uninterested Patrick has been in him the whole time. Because clearly there’s been a misunderstanding, and clearly Pete (once again) cared too much for his own good.

“No, Pete. Wait,” Brendon stops him again, a hand on his shoulder. “Last week, that conversation you walked in on? Patrick was asking me about you. He wanted to makes sure he wasn’t getting the whole _totally into dudes_ vibe mixed up.”

Pete pauses, watches the way the world tilts with Brendon’s words, and subsequently feels like a giant ass. It shouldn’t surprise him, the way he continuously fails to know what the fuck is going on with other people, but this time feels worse than usual.

Brendon and Patrick: they’re the two people he knows best, and somehow Pete still doesn’t understand a goddamn thing.

He lets out a frustrated sigh, before the realization of exactly _what_ Brendon’s just told him slams into him, nearly choking him with its implications. He lets out a shaky breath, licking too dry lips and asks, “What did you,” Pete clears his throat, trying for less nervous, less desperate. “What did you tell him?”

“That he should’ve seen your eyeliner phase.”

Pete’s mouth drops open, and Brendon’s smirking at him like he didn’t _also_ have a fucking eyeliner phase. Pete’s working up a healthy indignation, ready to wipe the smugness of the barista’s face with orders to reorganize the mess that is the back room, but like a responsible adult, Pete ends up letting it slide in favor of more pressing issues.

“Well, he’s wasting his time,” Pete declares, ignoring the way the words make his stomach twist and his heart drop. “ I’m not—I’m not looking for a relationship.”

Pete doesn’t know how to say _I’m not competent enough with other people’s emotions, and I care about Patrick too much to lose him to my own stupidity_ without starting an argument, so he hopes his actual words do enough to convey his unwillingness for anything except living in denial for the foreseeable future.

Brendon snorts, his usual level of disrespect, and looks thoroughly unimpressed with Pete’s bullshit.

“Yeah, okay. You guys have been making heart eyes at each other since he showed up and almost gave you a heart attack.” Pete attempts to defend himself because it wasn’t _that_ bad, but Brendon continues on, “And frankly, it’s starting to scare away the other customers. No one wants to be in the same room as you two and your sexual tension.”

Pete makes a noise of indignation, not even able to form a proper response in the face of Brendon’s reply. He averts his eyes, frowning at the wall, but doesn’t back down when he speaks.

“I’m serious, Brendon.” Pete shifts his gaze again, looking the taller man dead in the eyes. He takes a breath, deep and decisive, and does his best to keep the lump in his throat out of his voice. “I just—I just can’t.”

Brendon’s shoulders slump, and he looks sad more than anything at Pete’s words. Pete doesn’t know what to do with that level of commitment from someone who regularly has to clean the bathrooms, so he pushes past the other barista, and works on wiping down the counter until he feels somewhere close to normal again.

He forces his focus to scrubbing off some dried coffee stains, and doesn’t think about Brendon’s words, or Patrick, at all.

* * *

 

A few days (and more than a few freak outs) later, Patrick comes in looking somewhere between half dead and fully desolate. The bags beneath his eyes remind Pete of his own insomnia, the way he’d get when he’d gone too long without proper sleep. His hair’s unkempt and his clothes are wrinkled like they’ve seen multiple days of use.

It tugs at Pete’s heart, but it’s made worse by the way Patrick’s eyes are trained are the floor, how he doesn’t even look at Pete before taking his seat by the window and laying his head on folded arms. It’s a far cry from the pop icon that wandered into his shop months ago, and something old and nostalgic tugs at Pete with how human Patrick looks, beaten down like the rest of them.

Wordlessly, Pete begins making Patrick something to drink, hesitating only slightly before eventually choosing Chai Tea. It’s something like a risk, and Pete just hopes Patrick understands what he’s trying to say.

He waves at Brendon to take over the counter, and doesn’t miss the pointed look the barista gives him in return. He ignores it, however, and heads towards Patrick, who’s unaware of the world around him, head unmoving from its previous position.

Pete sits across from Patrick, setting the drink a safe distance away from any limbs. He reaches over, resting his hand on the singer’s elbow, smiling gently when he raises his head.

Patrick looks worse up close, his skin paler than usual, a translucent pallor to it that worries Pete too much for either of their own good’s. Something hard and unforgiving lodging itself in Pete’s throat at the way Patrick’s eyes widen at the sight of Pete, the relief clear on his face now that Pete’s done being an ass.

Still, when Patrick sees the tea in front of him, he smiles, small but grateful, and the tension eases out of Pete as he watches it drain away from Patrick.

“This album is killing me,” Patrick admits, pausing to take to a sip of tea. Pete shoots him a confused frown, the last mention he heard Patrick had found his _inspiration_ and was elated at the progress he was making. Patrick continues, though, “I got word from the higher-ups today. They wanna push the release date forward as some marketing ploy or something. I don’t—it’s not _finished_. I can’t—”

Patrick cuts himself off with a frustrated noise, ending his rant with a hopeless look aimed in Pete’s direction.

And Pete doesn’t know what to say. He _never_ knows what to say.

He’s always been bad at the, well, _music_ part of music. And his lyrics are all convoluted metaphors and half-poetry from years ago. He has nothing tangible to give Patrick to ease the stress around his eyes or make the slump of his shoulders any less defeated.

So instead, he hops up, making quick work of his apron and giving Brendon a quick, “watch the shop,” before he’s pulling Patrick up and out the door with him.

Patrick looks grumpy and tired, but he humors Pete for half a block before asking, “What are we doing?”

“You said it yourself. This album’s wrecking you, dude. We’re taking a break,” Pete replies, smiling his brightest and hoping Patrick doesn’t notice the way Pete still has their hands clasped together.

Patrick frowns, before protesting, “I need to _work_. I can’t just… fuck around right now.”

Pete somehow manages to smile even wider, squeezing Patrick hand and feeling overwhelmed at how much he missed the crease that formed between Patrick’s eyebrows whenever he disagreed with something Pete’s said.

“You shouldn’t have come to the shop then, huh?”

Patrick laughs, loud and uncontrolled like it was startled out of him. He grins at Pete, before conceding, “Yeah, okay. What do you have planned?”

Pete forces his smile to something sly and mysterious, thinks maybe he can play it off like he isn’t just making this up as he goes, and replies, “You’ll see.”

He considers their options as he guides Patrick left and right, thinks about the park just a few blocks away, or maybe the Italian restaurant Pete goes to when he’s had a bad day and breadsticks are the only thing that could make it better.

Patrick needs something _special_ , though. Something Pete can give him that doesn’t feel like a cheap attempt at a first date. (Pete’s mind immediately moves from that train of thought on the word _date_.)

Pete stills, only for a moment, before suddenly changing direction and dragging Patrick behind him and back the way they came. It’s stupid; it’s really stupid, but maybe… Maybe it’s also what Patrick needs.

They stop in front of an old record store, rundown in the same way _Clandestine_ is. It’s what drew Pete to it in the first place, his appreciation for small businesses growing the moment he started his own.

He pushes his way inside, Patrick trailing close behind. Pete nods at Joe, the owner before making his way towards the center of the store. He has to shuffle around the bins a bit, Joe’s means of sorting albums unclear as Pete passes Katy Perry, Zeppelin and Saves the Day all in the same bin, before he finally finds it.

He pulls it out with a triumphant noise, before turning to Patrick and presenting him with his own album.

Patrick looks somewhere between confused and embarrassed, so Pete rushes to explain, “I heard your album for the first time in this shop. Joe,” Pete pauses, nodding his head towards the man behind the counter, “was playing it about a week after it came out. I bought it the second I heard it.”

Patrick’s eyes widen in realization, and he sputters for a moment, before finally asking, “So, you… listened to the album before you met me?”

Pete rubs the back neck, nervous. It’s been a long time since Pete worried that Patrick would peg him as a creepy fan and never talk to him again, but that fear is making itself known now in the face of Patrick’s bewilderment.

“Yeah, I’ve… I’ve been a bit a fan for a while. I kinda, um, recognized you… when you came in my shop,” Pete admits, bracing himself for Patrick’s reaction.

Patrick’s eyes soften, something fond forming in the curve of his smile, and he steps forward to hug Pete, right in the middle of the record store.

It’s not what Pete expected, but he returns the hug immediately, not missing the way Patrick’s arms tighten the second Pete brings up his own.

Eventually, they pull back, and Pete watches as the singer debates something with himself, and he waits patiently for Patrick to speak. Months of conversation have taught Pete that Patrick doesn’t say anything he doesn’t want to, can’t be persuaded of something if he’s made his mind up.

It’s only a few moments, but Pete feels the weight of Patrick’s indecisiveness in his stomach, and realizes the gravity of this moment.

“I’ve tried writing about you,” Patrick confesses, staring at Pete but maybe past him, “but you’re not really an easy person to capture. I was stuck, trying to write something about a friend, y’know? But I couldn’t find a way to put it into words. 

“But then… I realized—I realized maybe that’s not quite right. The friend thing. And it got a lot easier after that.”

Pete doesn’t have time to process Patrick’s words—not beyond the way they make his breathing stop and his heart race—before Patrick’s lips are on his, soft and slightly warm like the air around them.

Pete stills, going rigid as he feels Patrick cup his cheek, rest a hand on his arm. He tells himself to relax, this is what he wants. But he’s frozen with the immensity of his fear and this is _Patrick_ and this _important_ , and Pete can’t bring himself to do a goddamn thing.

It’s gentle and sweet and something like perfect, but Patrick’s pulling back before Pete has a chance to do anything but feel shocked.

“I—” Patrick stutters, “I’m sorry. I’ll just… I should get to the studio, yeah? I’ll, uh, see you—um, bye Pete.”

Patrick leaves before Pete has a chance register his words, much less stop him and pull him close and tell him exactly how much he means to Pete.

He considers running after Patrick, pinning him to the side of a building and showing the singer _exactly_ how easy a person he can be to capture. But Patrick’s expression, right as he pulled away, makes him stop. Pete knows what regret looks like.

He glances around, notices Joe still standing behind the register, wide eyed and avoiding Pete’s gaze, before putting the now-forgotten album back in its box.

He can still taste Patrick on his lips, and he hates it because it’s Chai Tea.

* * *

 

When he gets back to the shop, Pete can’t look at Brendon and the barista doesn’t ask.

Before Brendon leaves, he wraps his arms around Pete, squeezing once before letting go. When he pulls back, he nods at Pete and gives him a sad little half smile that means more to Pete than he could ever put into words.

Pete goes home and stares at the ceiling above his bed, trying to convince himself that he doesn’t need anyone. That _Clandestine_ is what really matters. That Patrick leaving, it’s for the best.

* * *

 

Patrick doesn’t stop by in the next few weeks, and Pete doesn’t expect him to.

 He throws himself into his work, reorganizing their stock and cleaning everything with excessive force and making sure every customer has the best damn coffee Pete can give them. It’s obsessive and avoidant and Pete hates how it’s his only way to deal with his problems, but it’s better than punching a wall or going on a binge or downing a bottle of pills, so he doesn’t stop.

He feels the weight of Brendon’s worried glances constantly, but they don’t talk about it and Pete feels relieved. He doesn’t know how to tell Brendon that he was right, can’t find the words for how much he misses Patrick and misses his presence and misses the way Pete feels like he isn’t giving up anything when they’re sitting together and talking about nothing.

Sometimes Pete catches Brendon’s eyes and he looks something like remorseful, somewhere between guilty and dejected, so maybe he understands.

It’s awful and lonely and maybe that’s why one day as they’re closing, Pete _snaps_ , yelling at Brendon for a simple mistake he’s made a thousand times that Pete’s always laughed off before.

“Fuck, Brendon,” Pete shouts, knows as he saying it that the other barista doesn’t deserve a word of it. “Would it kill you to do something right for once? Just _once_ , maybe?”

Brendon squares his shoulders, looks like he’s getting ready to yell right back. He stops, though, and Pete can’t identity the look on his face, doesn’t know how to fit the downturn of his mouth to resolution in his eyes. Then, suddenly, he steps forward, and places a hand on Pete’s shoulder.

“I’m your friend, Pete,” Brendon says, catching his eyes and forcing Pete to see the conviction of his statement. “You know that, right? I care about you, more than just as my boss or the guy who signs my paychecks or whatever. You’re my _friend_ , Pete. And it’s okay to depend on people.”

The words hit Pete like a blow, and he has to force himself not to shake off Brendon’s hand and start yelling again. He’s found everything Pete’s been avoiding, but there’s no way Pete can dispute the fierceness in his voice.

 He tries anyway.

“I didn’t—I messed everything up, once. I can’t do that again. I can’t _be_ that person again,” Pete admits, staring at scars on his hands because he can’t bear the look on Brendon’s face. “I was an asshole. I fucked up everything. I’m not going back to that.”

“Pete,” Brendon sighs, fond and exasperated and maybe exactly what Pete needs to hear, “Not going after Patrick… that _is_ fucking things up.”

And maybe Pete agrees, maybe Brendon’s _exactly_ right, but he just shakes his head and goes back to stocking the displays.

**

When Pete gets home that night, the first thing he does is pull out his bass. There’s an old amp in the closet, something shitty he’s had since he was a teenager, and he grabs that too.

He sits on the couch, shaky hands working to plug in the old instrument. He tunes the bass without thought, muscle memory covering for years without practice.

Pete stalls for a minute and hates how something he used to love only brings him anxiety now.

When he does play, he starts with something easy. A basic chord progression that should be second nature, and he almost throws the bass when he fucks up the first three tries.

He doesn’t though; he just starts over, and Pete nearly cries with relief when he plays the next run through perfectly.

He won’t risk playing anything complicated, knows that if he tries for something he doesn’t have the skill for anymore, he’ll just get frustrated, but it’s exhilarating anyway. Just holding the bass and doing _something_ , for the first time in fucking _years_ , in enough for Pete.

He plays until his fingers feel like they might fall off, and then he plays some more. He turns on Patrick’s record, trying to decipher the music and the way a bass line will thrum through a song, and then does his best to recreate it.

It’s not perfect, but it’s _real_ and Pete can’t believe he gave up the music when he gave up everything else too.

Eventually Pete stops; he remembers when he used to play until his fingers would bleed, and that isn’t an ideal situation for a guy who serves people drinks for a living.

Still, he swallows hard when he puts the bass back into the closet, promises himself it’s just temporary; he’ll come back to it again.

When he goes to sit back on the couch, he grabs a notebook from his desk. It’s something that Pete’s avoided even more than playing bass, because the lyrics were the lifestyle. They inspired his lifestyle. He knows he’d sometimes have a bad time for good lyrics.

He grabs a pen anyway, scrawling down words and phrases that have been clouding his head for the past months. He know they’re mostly about Patrick, the way he crashed into Pete’s life and fucked up everything and fixed it at the same time, but they’re also about him and maybe that’s why things are different this time.

When he’s finished, he’s staring down at something like a song, but not quite. But he reaches up anyway, scribbling _Alone Together_ at the top of the page.

He falls asleep that night on the couch, notebook clutched in his hands, the very beginnings of an idea forming at the back of his mind.

* * *

 

When Pete wakes up, the first thing he does is text Brendon that the shop will be closed. Pete feels strange, taking two vacation days so close to one another, but Brendon’s reply, _fucking things up today, boss ?_ startles a laugh out of Pete, and maybe eases some of the tension forming low in his stomach.

The beginnings of his idea have blossomed into an actual plan, and Pete isn’t sure what side of the _fucking things up_ fence it’s going to land him on, but Pete knows he has to try.

However, Pete’s plan isn’t very thorough, and goes as following: find Patrick at his label, and somehow win him back.

Pete’s only been to Patrick’s recording studio a few times, meeting him there on occasion after Patrick’s finished up for the day, but he knows it’s his best chance at getting to the singer.

It’s kind of a dick move, cornering Patrick so he’s forced to hear Pete out, but he thinks maybe it’s his only shot. Pete can’t get the look on Patrick’s face, right as he pulled away after their kiss, out of his mind. He can’t rid himself of the obvious mix of hurt and regret, and at the very least, Patrick has to know it was never about him, that Patrick is worth more than just one half kiss that Pete was too afraid to return.

In the shower, eating breakfast, on the drive over, Pete considers what he wants to say, how he wants to say it. But really, he just wants Patrick to _understand_ , needs him to look at how fucked up Pete really is and still want to kiss him like he did in the record store.

 When he arrives, he fucks around outside the building for a few minutes, a sense of foreboding creeping up on him and making Pete want to get back in his car and just drive away.

However, Pete forces himself to get his shit together, squaring his shoulders and ignoring the way his stomach churns just at the sight of the reception desk.

He smiles politely at guy behind the counter, who just blinks disinterestedly in reply.

“Um, I’m just, um, I’m here to see Patrick. Uh, Stump. Patrick Stump,” Pete stutters out. He fidgets his hands, looking at the wall before back at the receptionist, his smile morphing into a grimace.

“Name?” Desk guy asks, clicking at something on the computer as he checks Pete for the guest list. He can only pray Patrick didn’t take him off.

“Pete, um. Wentz.”

“Yeah, okay. Studio C,” he says, handing Pete a guest tag and turning uninterested eyes back to his computer screen.

Pete at least makes it around the corner before letting his entire breath out in one massive sigh of relief.

He walks down the long corridor of doors, and feels increasingly apprehensive with each one he passes. When he finds studio C, Pete spends a good five minutes convincing himself (yet again) not to turn around and leave.

Finally, Pete takes a deep breath, holding it in and relaxing himself as much as possible, before knocking on the door. 

Pete cringes, expecting any number of bad reactions from Patrick, when the door opens… and a short, skinny dude fucking _covered_ in tattoos is now staring down at Pete, looking completely unimpressed with the way he has shrunken away from door, already prepared to be kicked out or shouted at.

“Can I help you?” His tone is even more apathetic, and Pete rubs his neck nervously in response.

“Um, yeah… Is Patrick—Is he in there?”

“Depends. Who are you?”

“Pete. I’m—I’m a friend,” Pete hesitates, and that’s possibly his biggest mistake.

“ _You’re_ Pete?” Or, guessing by short, tattooed and scary’s tone, just being himself is enough. “So you’re the guy who screwed around with Patrick, why don’t you go fu—”

“Andy?” And Pete nearly pushes past the guy—Andy, apparently—just so he can see the face accompanying the voice. Pete _missed_ Patrick, but he didn’t realize how much until he was ten feet and a canyon’s distance away from him. “What’s going on?”

When Patrick comes into view, Pete knows his entire face lights up. He knows some goofy grin has formed, his eyes softening just at the sight of the singer. He doesn’t care.

He does care, however, about the way Patrick flutters through a range of emotions when locking eyes with Pete. His whole body freezes, and Pete sees anger, embarrassment, sadness, but mostly Patrick just looks hurt.

And Pete feels his chest ache with it because he _caused_ that. He caused the way Patrick takes a step back, like maybe he wants to run but he has nowhere to go. He caused the pain reflecting in Patrick’s eyes, and he knows he can’t take it back.

But maybe he can make it better.

“Patrick,” Pete breathes the word out, feels it on his mouth like maybe he’s saying it for the first time. “I—Can we talk?”

“I don’t…” Patrick trails off, looking indecisive, but Pete knows he’s leaning towards no.

“Please,” Pete says, soft, and it’s all he has left.

He doesn’t deserve to talk to Patrick, doesn’t deserve to explain himself, doesn’t _deserve_ to have Patrick back. But he thinks maybe he could, if he could just fix the broken look on Patrick’s face, and he at least needs that chance.

“Andy,” Patrick says, eyes flickering over to the other man. “Just… give us a few minutes?”

Andy looks like he wants to argue, but eventually he sighs, leaving the room. He sends Pete one last glare as he goes, but Pete can’t even be offended, not when Patrick’s right in front of him, looking maybe more suspicious than anything, all the hurt carefully concealed under a blank exterior. 

“Patrick,” Pete starts, and he walks toward the other man, gently resting a hand on his shoulder (hating himself when Patrick flinches, just enough to notice). “I’m so _sorry_.”

“I—what?” Whatever anger Patrick held is replaced by open confusion, and Pete squeezed his shoulder, his mouth curving up in an imitation of a smile.

“Patrick, you’re amazing. Forget singing, forget music. As a _person_ , Patrick,” Pete says, forcing Patrick to meet his eyes so he _understands_. “I don’t think you get it, just how amazing you are. And I didn’t—I _don’t_ deserve you. But I never… Not kissing you back, that was because I was scared. You mean so much to me, and I didn’t want to fuck it up, like I always fuck things up. It was never about you, Patrick.

“And—And I’m still scared. You don’t know how bad I can mess things up, Patrick. But I already tried doing nothing, and look where that got us.”

“Pete.”

Patrick’s eyes have softened, and his tone is somewhere between hopeful and hesitant, and maybe that could be enough, but Pete’s kept these secrets for years, and if anyone deserves them, it’s Patrick.

 “I broke up Arma,” Pete confesses, and it’s still a sharp pang to admit, but he does it anyway. “There was—some girl. She doesn’t matter anymore. I cared too much about her, and not enough about the band. And our relationship was shit, so when it all blew up in my face, I ended up losing both. I messed up everything. And I blamed relationships. I blamed the music. I didn’t want to screw something up like that ever again.

“But, Patrick. I played bass for the first time in years last night. I wrote lyrics, and they probably suck, but I still did it. I don’t—I don’t want to push things away anymore. I don’t want to be too scared to take a risk. I want to try this, us, whatever. You’re amazing, Patrick. And maybe I don’t deserve this chance, but if this is what you want, you _do_.”

Pete isn’t sure what he expects from Patrick in the wake of his confession, but being grabbed by his shoulders, spun around and slammed against the wall would not have made his top five guesses.

However, when Patrick presses their lips together, pushing himself flush against Pete as he goes to thread his fingers through Pete’s hair, well, he can definitely get on board the idea.

Patrick swipes his tongue across Pete’s bottom lip, and Pete opens his mouth willingly, holding back a whimper at the way Patrick feels pressed against him, tongue in his mouth and not a breath of space between them.

Patrick has a leg pressed between his thighs, grinding into Pete like maybe this is his only chance.

Pete feels out of control, out of his depth, and that isn’t right. He decides to rectify it, looping an ankle around the back of Patrick’s calf and tugging out, causing the singer to lose balance. Pete uses the momentum to flip them around, so now Patrick’s pressed to the studio wall, gasping into Pete’s mouth at the sudden change in positions.

Pete smirks, leaning forward and whispering, right against the shell of Patrick’s ear, “Tell me what you want, Patrick.”

Patrick pulls back, and far as he can pressed between Pete and the wall, staring Pete straight in the eyes, and simply says, “Blow me.”

Pete nearly chokes at Patrick’s words, but he kisses Patrick again, heated and messy, before sinking to his knees.

He works at unbuckling Patrick belt, hand fast and nervous because maybe it’s been a while and maybe blowing Patrick Stump in a recording booth has definitely been a reoccurring wet dream of Pete’s since forever.

He goes to pull down Patrick jeans, fucking tight as hell, and takes his boxers while he’s at it. And then. Then, he’s staring at Patrick’s dick.

He looks up at Patrick, and licks his palm before reaching up and wrapping his hand around Patrick’s dick, smirking at the way Patrick collapses against the wall, eyes fluttering shut and hips twitching minutely.

Pete’s always been somewhat of a tease, and now is no different as he begins stroking Patrick, leaning in to mouth at the jut of his hip bone. He licks a line down Patrick's abdomen, and bites softly just at the top of his thigh.

Patrick makes a noise in the back of his throat, cut off like he’s trying to be quiet, and Pete decides right then he wants to make him _scream_.

Pete goes for broke, guiding Patrick’s cock into his mouth, breathing in and looking up. Patrick eyes are closed, hands twitching before he eventually settles one in the crown of Pete’s hair.

Pete bobs his head, and he lets go of Patrick’s dick in favor of reaching around to squeeze at his ass. Patrick’s eyes snap open, and Pete looks up through his lashes, locking eyes with Patrick as he pulls almost all the way back, just the tip still in his mouth.

Pete pauses only for a moment, tongue swirling around the head, before taking Patrick as deep as he can. Pete feels when Patrick’s dick hits the back of his throat, and he moans around it, reaching down to cup himself in his (too fucking tight) jeans.

Pete doesn't remember ever getting off on giving a blowjob quite like this. He doesn't fucking care.

Patrick’s not even attempting at quiet, head thrown back as he moans without reserve. Pete tries to smirk, almost choking with it, and decides he can feel victorious about this later.

Pete would like to think it’s his amazing head-giving abilities, but it doesn’t take long after that. A few minutes, and Patrick’s tugging at his hair, choking out a, “Pete, Pete, I’m gonna,” before cutting off with a groan.

Pete bobs his head down further, sucking _hard_ right as he feels Patrick’s orgasm hit. He does his best to swallow everything, missing a few drops and feeling them run down his chin.

Patrick collapses against the wall with a “fuck, Pete,” and when he goes to wipe off Pete’s face, Pete takes his thumb in his mouth, licking off the remains of Patrick’s come.

Patrick makes another chokes off noise, somewhere between a gasp and a groan, before hauling Pete up by his jacket and pressing him against the wall.

Patrick makes quick work of his belt,  and Pete knows this is going to be over embarrassingly quick. A few moments and Patrick has his hand curled around Pete’s dick, quick strokes that have Pete leaning into Patrick, hips thrusting to match his pace.

Patrick leans closer, brushing his lips against Pete’s neck, feather light, before biting at his earlobe.

“Come on, Pete,” Patrick whispers, breath ghosting out and causing Pete to shiver, “Come for me.”

And that's all it takes, really. Patrick's hand and Patrick's voice and feel of Patrick against him, it's all too much.

Pete comes, shuddering and biting into Patrick’s shoulder. He slumps against the singer, before leaning up to press a sloppy kiss to his lips.

Patrick laughs, before leaning in a kissing Pete softer, gentler. They sink to the floor, and for a moment Pete can’t think of anything but Patrick’s lips against his.

Pete remembers where they are, though, pulling back and brushing Patrick’s bangs out of his eyes.

“Your album—what’s—” Pete needs significantly more brain cells for the conversation, but unfortunately for him, he lost most of them coming his brains out all over Patrick’s hand.

“It’s almost finished, actually,” Patrick admits, smiling shyly and commandeering the last of Pete’s heart. “It just needs an ending.”

“I—what do you mean? An ending?”

“I’ve… it’s kinda a thematic album? I sorta, well. Wrote it about falling in love at a coffee shop?”

Pete doesn’t believe it, can’t believe it, but he leans forward anyway, looking Patrick right in the eyes as he repeats, “an ending.”

And then Pete kisses him.

* * *

The next few weeks, Patrick is busy finishing up the album, and Pete only sees him in passing, the few moments Patrick can spare time to drop by the shop. But for once, Pete isn’t freaking out.

Brendon keeps shooting him looks, like he’s waiting for Pete’s usual paranoia (and maybe Pete is too), but it doesn’t come.

One day, Patrick stops by right at close, arms absent of any instrument or laptop. Instead, he’s holding a single cd, casing and disc both free of any markings.

Pete’s eyes widen, and he gestures to the cd, arms flapping in a way that could be considered frantic if Pete gave a shit, and he asks, “Is that—you finished?

“Yeah, I thought you’d like the first listen.”

Patrick smiles, eyes bright and practically glowing, and Pete never realized how much the stress had been wearing Patrick down until it was gone. He nods in response, a little bit of his old fanboy coming out when he’s too excited to speak.

Forty-five minutes later and Pete has no problem admitting: it blows _Soul Punk_ out of the water.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on [tumblr](http://pavlust.tumblr.com/)  
> thanks for reading, kudos, comments


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